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Sunday, 4 August 2013

Tourists & Missionaries

Here are two little stories.

Homestead above the Nkomati Valley

Some time ago I was an observer at a community
meeting. I was the only mulungu
there, sitting at the rear of the meeting with a staff member whispering
translations in my ear. The details of the meeting are not material, nor the
reason for me being there, but suffice to say my entirely passive presence was
accepted and deemed to be necessary.

This was an important gathering, held at the edge of
the grounds of a rural school set high in the mountains commanding views across
the deep Nkomati Valley in the Swaziland high/middle veldt towards the distant blue
mountains surrounding Piggs Peak. Like many such meetings the participants were
spread around, sitting on the flattened grass and sheltering where possible from
the relentless sun under the inadequate shade of the few stunted high veldt acacia
trees; traditionally men to one side and the women to the other. Matters of
great import were being discussed and recorded, and as I have observed before
and since at similar gatherings, everyone had the opportunity of a polite and
respectful hearing.

Some way into the meeting I became aware of a minibus edging
its way along the rural track and drawing up a little way away from the meeting
area. From this vehicle issued forth a dozen or so tourists sporting white and
cherry red limbs protruding from safari khaki shorts and many pocketed waist-coats, liberally slung about with expensive camera equipment and topped to a
man and a woman with floppy safari hats with “Kruger Park” emblazoned on them.

Some of the visitors floated around the periphery of
the gathering taking photographs of the scenery – both topographic and social.
Some even strayed into the seated crowd of community members seemingly
oblivious of the geography of this gathering of people. Ever courteous, senior
members of the gathering rose to their feet and politely greeted the newcomers.
After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes of pleasantries and further photographs (portraits
and scenes) the intruders retreated to their vehicle and the meeting proceedings
re-commenced as the mini-bus lurched down the dusty and potholed rural road.

The second story also occurs in a generic rural setting.

Another homestead in the Nkomati Valley

On each rural homestead
significant areas of land are under cultivation (on average about 1.4ha per homestead according to a study we did in the Nkomati
Valley) with a mix of maize (which is the staple), cabbage, groundnuts, sweet
potatoes, cassava, rarely sorghum, various other commonly recognised vegetables
produce, and in more secluded areas, dagga (yes - cannabis sativa! - or weed if
you prefer). Surplus produce is hawked at the side of the road, or in town, or
is sold into the formal market mechanism run by the National Agricultural
Marketing Board (Namboard).

Cattle are pastured on open commonage, chickens
scratch for food around the homestead
yard area and goats graze and browse in the vicinity. Interestingly pigs are a
rarity. Cows are a vitally important store of wealth and are used for Lobola (bride
price) and other exchanges, and for slaughter in celebration of special events.
Surplus beasts are sold at formal auctions.

A very well ordered homestead showing the extent of cultivation

Not so long ago there descended into this setting a
group of missionaries whose avowed intent was to teach the rural Swazi’s how to
plant and manage vegetable gardens. These were folk who were I assume moved by
some thought or spiritual impetus to temporarily up-sticks from their
comfortable western existence and move to Swaziland for a short period of time
to, yes, to teach rural Swazi’s how to plant and manage vegetable gardens. This
endeavour took place in an agrarian economy where 70% or so of the population
is rural and engaged in animal husbandry and the production of food-stuffs at a
subsistence level.

_____________________________________________________________

I still remain open mouthed at the memory of the event
at the community meeting; for two reasons.

Firstly I am aghast at the sheer bare faced intrusion
of foreigners into a community forum. For that there can be no excuse. Did the tourists
not think that a group of 70 or so folk gathered together in the veldt are not
there for some private and meaningful reason? Did they think that the gathering
was being held for their benefit and perhaps they left hugely disappointed that
there was no impromptu show of sibhaca or gumboot dancing, or perhaps a rousing
choiristic rendition of a Michael Jackson number? Or worse – as I think is the case – did they
did not even see the folk on the ground as sentient beings.

Hand operated maize mill

Secondly I remain astonished by the equanimity and
tolerance of the people at the meeting when faced with what I would regard, do
regard as being a most intolerable intrusion.

With regards to the second story, at the time I felt
that it does not take much insight to be able to observe something
fundamentally wrong about a bunch of foreigners intent on imparting knowledge on
market gardening descending on an environment that is redolent with generations
of farming and local environmental experience. This I felt could not even be
characterised as misdirected well intentioned efforts. It was paternalism at
its worst and at its most crass. And once again I found my jaw dropping at the
patience, tolerance and ineffable politeness of rural Swazi folk in the face of
such intrusion.

You may care to indulge in a little bit of cultural
readjustment and re-frame both premises –

Imagine if you will that you are sitting in your
favourite pub, bar, cafe, restaurant or community hall watching an important
nail biting national soccer final when the door bangs open and in troop a small
but noisy group of Swazi warriors clad in traditional dress and brandishing “cultural”
weapons. They interrupt the sport for between ten to fifteen minutes by
performing various well rehearsed warrior dance moves and then depart leaving
behind only the heady smell of sweat and wood-smoke. Bemused, amused, angered perhaps,
you return home after the match only to find a small group of smiling ululating
Swazi women who are there, at the express invitation of your local priest, to show
you how to use your washing machine, how to iron your socks, and how to cook
your Sunday Roast (with Yorkshire Puddings).

Yet another homestead set against the kopje behind

Now I would hate for this to be taken as an anecdotal
illustration of foreign crassness measured against noble native tolerance; that
would be too twee by half! That would be to assign some ridiculous level of cultural
symmetry and typecasting. In a way
however I wish it were that simple, a laughable clash of misunderstanding and
cultural disjuncture. But it is not, and it is far more serious – and I believe
that my simple anecdotes illustrate scenarios where the potential damage is grave
and long lasting . . . . .